


Misery Loves My Company

by EpiKatt



Series: Soap/Price rewrite [1]
Category: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Concussions, Domestic Fluff, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:08:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EpiKatt/pseuds/EpiKatt
Summary: This is simply a rewrite of the end of MW2 and the beginning of MW3 with just some minor changes to fit in Soap/Price.
Relationships: John "Soap" MacTavish/John Price
Series: Soap/Price rewrite [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844122
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing this in two parts simply because it fits and I'm busy for the next week and want to put some of it up for those as thirsty for this content as I am.
> 
> I do hope you enjoy it, the second part will be uploaded. Eventually. Please subscribe so it'll get to you.
> 
> (Title from Three Days Grace)

**_History is written by the victor. History is full of liars._ **

Soap came to with a flurry of sensations accosting him. His ankle was throbbing painfully, his whole body ached, his lungs felt raw after coughing up freshwater and his brain felt like it was trying to ooze through his skull. However, none of that mattered. He had a mission. Kill Shepherd.

He drug himself to his feet, world swaying around him as he stumbled and careened his way through the sandy tundra. He saw a blurry figure propped against a helicopter, wasn’t sure if it was Shepherd or not so he made his way over, body going wherever the sandy wind pushed it. He had a vague thought that the wind was picking up, sand obscuring his already blurry eyes. 

As he got closer to the blurry form, he quickly realized it wasn’t Shepherd. The man was, however, holding up a gun that Soap knew he couldn’t dodge in time. He swallowed and forced his eyes to stay open, watery from the harsh air but unwilling to not see who killed him. He saw the man flex his finger over the trigger, and the quietest sound of the  _ click  _ was heard. It jammed.

Soap saw red, unable to discern if it was from the concussion or pure rage. All he knew was that he pulled his knife from the sheath at his belt and had stumbled up against the man in seconds, slitting his throat cleanly, blood spurting out in front of them both. The man looked at him, eyes wide in disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe he was dying, if not already dead by the time he realized it. He held his gaze for the few moments before he died, giving him the mercy of not dying alone. 

When he was sure the man was gone, he grabbed onto a part of the chopper behind him and dragged himself up staggering onward.

By the time he reached the car with a Shepherd-sized figure propped against it, his head had cleared ever so slightly, but his ankle was throbbing worse. If he thought his vision had reddened at the other soldier, seeing Shepherd parked so casually against that car made his blood boil. He knew he definitely had a concussion when he spared only a passing thought that he was sad Price was going to miss this. It was something they’d been looking forward to since the moment they found out Shepherd was a traitor. 

They’d had quite a few fast and angry fucks at every opportunity between hiding from their own country, declared traitors themselves. They’d taken a certain comfort in each other, in a sad way, knowing that they were only ones left. Held each other more in the quieter moments, spoke some truths about themselves in the early lights of morning after one had woken from a nightmare. Kissed a little more tenderly over their rubbish coffee that they’d nicked from a vendor down the road, one distracting and one taking. They’d agreed to save their money for more dire things.

He stumbled nearer, catching Shepherd’s look of disdain as he saw who’d caught up with him.

“You know what they say about revenge… you better be ready to dig two graves,” came Shepherd’s growly voice, barely loud enough over the sand storm building. 

Soap snapped, couldn’t help but think about Ghost and Roach and the countless amount of lives he couldn’t save. He couldn’t force himself to listen to a rubbish evil monologue when he had revenge to take care of. 

He rushed Shepherd, already blood stained knife held up and ready to gorge as deep a hole as he could into Shepherd’s ugly mug, or anywhere really. He hardly realized what was happening but he felt the sudden excruciating pain of his head being slammed against the car, all the symptoms from earlier returning full force and worse. Before the pain of that completely registered he felt the ice cold sensation of a knife,  _ his knife,  _ sliding underneath his sternum, knocking the breath clean out of him.

His last sight was of Shepherd’s malicious gaze set upon him, some of Soap’s blood splashed on his face.

Soap came to again, blearily thinking that being knocked unconscious this much was probably very unhealthy. 

“Five years ago, I lost thirty thousand men in the blink of an eye,” Shepherd rumbled. Soap was still coming around, but the numbness in his chest was a direct contrast to the pain in nearly every other part of his body, head especially. He was a little happy to see the handle of his knife still proudly jutting from his chest, reassured in the fact that he wouldn’t bleed out for a while longer.

“And the world just  _ fuckin’  _ watched,” Shepherd growled, tone evil and deadly.

Soap finally forced his eyes open, greeted by the sight of Shepherd towering over him, gun on display. Soap had enough active brain cells left to know where this was going. He and Price had talked about the likeliness of their deaths, knowing they’d rather die together with Shepherd gone than both live as well as Shepherd. The unsaid,  _ I don’t want to be in a world where you don’t watch my six,  _ was left, well, unsaid but they both knew they were thinking it. 

“Tomorrow, there will be no shortage of volunteers, no shortage of patriots.”

At this point, Soap was wishing Shepherd would get on with it and kill him already, not wanting to sit through this tirade of the man’s while his body slowly numbed and his vision darkened. Even the pain in his head was fading, though logically he knew that was a bad thing, he couldn’t help but be relieved.

Shepherd lowered the gun after rolling the chamber, pointing it at what seemed like Soap’s soul, though he knew it was his head.

“I know you understand.”

Oh God. Here it comes. He’s going to leave Price to finish this by himself, to either die alone or live alone; both were equally horrible options Soap couldn't afford to entertain in his last moments. Like before, he forced his eyes to stay open, though arguably harder than before, even just a few minutes ago, he wanted to look Shepherd in the eyes as he died. The cold was spreading from his chest outward, which he realized must have been his blood. He shivered, knowing it wasn’t the right temperature for it.

He saw Shepherd’s finger tense on the trigger and stiffened in expectation. Just as Shepherd fired the shot, Price slammed into him with righteous fury, the shot going astray and hitting right beside Soap, the sand flying up and hitting his sweaty face, which was concerning as he was so cold.

He snapped back to focus when Price knocked the gun from Shepherd’s hand, within crawling distance if he were careful. Rolling himself onto his stomach, biting his lip to hold in his groans, he began dragging himself across the sand. Just as he touched the cool metal, he and Price locked eyes. Price looked terrified, and Soap knew he’d seen the knife in his chest. Soap knew he looked resigned. It was only a second, as Shepherd came up and kicked the gun away, and once more Soap was knocked unconscious.

His vision flickered, then. Each time he opened tired eyes, he saw Price losing worse and worse. The last time he opened them, he saw Price pinned to the ground being pummeled by Shepherd. He knew he had to do something. But what?

A few moments later of listening to Price’s pained grunts, himself struggling with drawing in a deep breath, his gaze caught on something. He blinked and it cleared. The handle of the knife sticking out of his chest. He’d unconsciously put his hand around it, and now he tightened his grip, vision flickering. He soon realized this was a two-hand mission and brought up his left, weak grip as tight as it could get.

He took in a shuddery breath and started pulling, biting his already bloody lip once more to hold in his agonized scream, knowing he couldn’t clue Shepherd in.

Blood spurted out, and Soap couldn’t tell how much time passed in agonized silence, breathing labored even more, spots dancing across his vision as he kept pulling, the blade coming out inch by bloody inch.

He could still hear Price being punched, but the man himself was silent, which cut through the fog in Soap’s head enough to amount to worry.

The knife finally slid out, making a quiet squelching noise as it did so. He fought back shivers of pain, body no longer listening to his commands, except his arm. Everything was focused on lifting it, aiming it. Shepherd froze, something tipping him off, and turned around to lock eyes with Soap, a very determined Soap. He managed to quirk his bloodstained lips up in a smirk before throwing the knife, knowing as soon as it left his fingers it would strike true.

With a very disgusting  _ thunk,  _ the knife ran through Shepherd’s eye socket and into his traitorous brain. Soap fell back to the ground, relieved even as his body failed and his worry over Price’s silence lessened. He began to fade, adrenaline leaving and vision darkening, breathing slowing down and aches dulling. 

A sudden cough jarred him back to life, all facilities back in enough power to keep Soap breathing a little longer. He registered Price wiping blood off his lips, shoving Shepherd’s leg off of him, before standing up and seeing Soap’s prone form.

“Soap!  _ Soap!”  _ Price cried, voice cracking. Soap relaxed, closing his eyes for only a moment.

When he opened them again, his chest felt tight and everything was throbbing again, no more was there numbness. Soap truly missed it. 

“It’ll hold for now, c’mon, get up,” Price muttered, holding a rough hand to Soap’s stubbled chin and kept it there fondly. No more than a second passed before the sound of a chopper drew their attention.

Price dragged Soap to his feet, world swaying around him while he barely managed to keep his footing, swallowed down bile as well as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

Price dragged Soap a few feet, where Soap’s legs were barely keeping him up, let alone letting him walk before Price spoke, making Soap aware of the fact that it was a friendly.

“I thought I told you this was a one way trip!” Price called, raising his voice over the growing storm.

“Looks like it still is. They’ll be looking for us, you know,” Nikolai replied, stepping closer.

Soap’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp for just a moment, but it was long enough to have him falling and have Nikolai catch him, both he and Price keeping a firm grip. Soap belatedly realized he was shivering again.

“Nikolai, we gotta get Soap outta here,” Price said urgently, knowing how bad off the man was.

“Da. I know a place,” Soap heard before falling fully unconscious, meters away from the chopper.

  
  
  


The next few hours were a blur, everything grayscale and fuzzy around him. The first coherent thought he had was when Price had unloaded him from the chopper, in the apparent safehouse. Soap felt wrong, his body too heavy yet light at the same time and  _ God  _ did everything ache. He swallowed his already dry mouth and dragged his eyes up to a stressed Price. Soap knew he was worried about him.

Price gave him a small yet slightly reassuring smile before turning to Nikolai and calling; “Get him inside!”

He shut his eyes and dreamt. 

_ “Soap! Stop taking all the hot water!” Price yelled, needing to be heard over the sound of Soap’s shower. They’d both just gotten back from a mission and were in desperate need for a shower, but Soap refused to share with Price, insisting that he actually wanted to be clean. _

_ Soap knew Price would heckle him, which was why he’d turned the water up to steam, just to piss him off.  _

_ “Oi! Stuff it! I’m taking my bleeding shower and you’re gonna wait out there like a good boy!” Soap shouted back, washing his hair thoroughly. _

_ He was about ready to get out when he heard the door click and bang open, immediately knowing Price had picked the lock. _

_ Price had a silly grin on his face as he coyly held out a towel for Soap. Soap glowered at him before stepping out of the shower, snatching the towel. He didn’t bother to turn the water off, knowing Price would get in even though it was scalding. _

_ He wrapped the towel around his waist after a brief rub-down and eyed Price undressing; couldn’t help but admire him for a moment. When Price tossed his shirt aside he grabbed his firm arm and tugged him close, bemused to see Price’s smirk.  _

_ “Smug bastard,” Soap grumbled, rolling his eyes when Price’s smirk got bigger. He let out a tired sigh and leaned forward, kissing him on his bearded cheek.  _

_ “Get in the shower, you smell like sewer,” Soap said, patting Price’s slack face before walking out to get changed. _

Soap came to again to hear Price yelling; “The safe house is up ahead!”

_ Ah, not there yet. _

“Keep moving!” and he was gone again.

_ The second they were both free after a god awfully long debriefing, (it made sense, Price had just come back from the dead, after all) Soap had pinned Price to the door in his room, who raised an eyebrow.  _

_ “A promotion?” _

_ “Someone had to take your place, old man.” _

_ Price just threw his head back and laughed. “And I assume our former agreement still holds?” _

_ “Well, I have you pinned to this door in a private room, what do you think?” _

_ Let’s just say, the two had limps the next morning. _

Once more, he found himself jarringly different. This time he was indoors. He could barely draw air into his lungs, feeling himself shiver uncontrollably.

“Out of the bloody way! We need a doctor!”

Soap tried desperately to stay awake, to give Price assurance that he was alright, but was dragged under before he could give a proper fight.

_ Soap was sitting on the edge of the bed, shuddering and breath hitching. Price was still asleep, obnoxious snores filling the room but they could have been whispers for all Soap could hear them.  _

_ His chest felt painfully tight and he dug his fingers into the thin width of hair at the top of his head, nails digging painfully into his scalp. He wanted so badly to wake up Price, to be held, comforted. But he couldn’t bear the thought of interrupting the man’s sleep, as he’d been having his own sleeping problems ever since he returned from the Gulag. The growing stress from Makarov and the impending World War III was beginning to wear on him, and was finally affecting his sleep. _

_ He growled and forced himself to take deep breaths, but his heart rate refused to go down. The snoring behind him stopped and he froze, realizing that his breathing was louder than he thought and knew Price was a light sleeper out of habit.  _

_ “John?” came his partner’s sleep hoarse voice. _

_ He couldn’t answer, couldn’t formulate a reply and just waited for Price to realize what was wrong and to help. He felt selfish and guilty, but couldn’t be arsed to care at this point. _

_ He heard Price shift and get up, felt his presence warm against his back. “John?” Price murmured, gently tugging Soap back against Price’s front, wrapping his arms around him loosely. Soap was unbearably relieved, pushing into Price near desperately. _

_ “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Soap muttered, bringing a hand up the grab Price’s, holding it tightly while his breathing calmed and his heart rate settled. _

_ “You’ve dealt with me these past few weeks,” Price murmured, setting his bristly chin on Soap’s bare shoulder.  _

_ Soap gave a tired hum, eyes already drooping closed, safe once more in Price’s strong hold. Price smiled against the side of Soap’s head, nose in the shaved bristly part of his head.  _

_ “Go to sleep, love, m’not going anywhere,” Price murmured, sliding his calloused hand up and down Soap’s arm gently, soothing the man back asleep.  _

_ It wasn’t long before Soap was the one causing the obnoxious snoring in the room. _

Once more into the breach. 

“Keep pressure on that wound!” Price ordered, voice sounding muffled to Soap’s ears.

“I’m trying!” Nikolai replied, sounding panicked. They continued down the hallway, whole body rattling from the little bumps. His vision was darkening once more and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. However long as possible, for Price. To kill Makarov.

“Hang in there, my friend…”

_ “Where’d you put the remote to the tv?” Soap yelled, unsure of where Price was in the hotel room. They were both captains, so they got a nicer room but capacity was almost full so it had two doubles. They obviously didn’t need them and didn’t bother with the second one. _

_ There was a muffled reply from the bedroom, and a moment later Price came out proudly holding up a cleaned hat of his. Soap couldn’t decide whether he loved or resented that hat, but knew Price wouldn’t look like himself without it.  _

_ “Not what I was asking. Where’s the remote?” Soap asked impatiently. Jeopardy was on in a few minutes and he wanted to watch it. He very seldom had a chance to and was eager to catch an episode. _

_ Price frowned and walked more into the room, setting his hat on his head before turning to look at the mini fridge. _

_ Realization dawned. “Why in the bloody hell did you put it in there?” _

_ “Heard somewhere that if you put something with dead batteries in the fridge, it’ll keep ‘em alive for a bit,” Price admitted, crouching down and pulling open the fridge and grabbed the remote, holding it up with a grin. _

_ Soap sighed and walked over to him, snatching the remote back before walking back into the living room and falling onto the couch and turning the tv on. _

_ A few minutes later, Price came and sat beside him, sides touching and arm around his shoulders even as he shouted out bizarrely wrong answers to Alex Trebek. _

This time, he was still and in a room. He heard Price shouting again, and Soap couldn’t help but think Price hadn't yelled about him this long in years, minus the Gulag. 

“He needs help, now!”

Through half lidded eyes, he saw a doctor walk up, panic on his features as well.

_ Ah. Must be bad then. _

He was snatched under before he realized his heart had finally given up, and was awoken to electricity shooting through him, making his back arch off the table and hi smout agape as he dragged in desperate gasps of air. He fell back onto the table, gasping painfully and only half conscious.

Later on, he could vaguely recall grabbing someone’s shirt in a death grip before collapsing back onto the table and everything fading once more.

He knows, later, after being told by Price, that he was carried to a chopper and stabilized while their fresh meat, Yuri, (the man he grabbed, Price told) defended them.

He came to for a last time, feeling numb and cotton filled, but couldn’t figure out if it was from his injuries or from being put on morphine.

Hearing Price mention someone named ‘Yuri’, the first thing that came to mind was;

“Who the bloody hell is Yuri?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soap's recovery and the true lead in to MW3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Said I was busy this week, which I am but I found some time to finish this.
> 
> Sorry if the timeline is a little inconsistent, just uh. Ignore it. I shape canon with my fingers like play doh. 
> 
> (Unbeta'd but should be comprehensible)

**_...all you need to change the world is one good lie and a river of blood._ **

  
  
  
  


Soap had his first fully conscious thought four days after the incident. They’d lowered the amount of drugs in him from “knock me out” to “it’s like I’m in Candyland”, which, was better.

When he came to, at first everything was blurry and his thoughts were jumbled together. His eyes slowly focused and his thoughts came in line and the first thing he saw when he tilted his head was an unconscious Price, face mottled with bruises and some bandages peeking out from under his shirt. 

Soap blinked and frowned, gaze slowly trailing to his chest, which was covered in a large amount of bandages and no doubt stitches underneath. He couldn’t help but be relieved that he was still alive.

He thought about waking up Price, but figured he hadn’t had much sleep.

_ We did it,  _ he thought, drifting off once more.

  
  
  


The next time he came to, it was to someone checking over his chart at the edge of the bed. Soap narrowed his eyes, even knowing he couldn’t actually do anything. The man looked up and seemed a little surprised that Soap had woken up. 

“Hungry?” he asked in a faint Russian accent.

“..Yes?”

The man nodded and left, and Soap assumed it was to get him bad food, likely liquids, as well as summon Price.

His assumption was correct. A minute later, Price had slammed the door open and stuck his head in. Once his eyes landed on Soap, he glared and stepped fully inside, shutting the door. 

“Don’t ever bloody do that again!” Price snapped, falling into the chair beside Soap’s bed with a grunt.

Soap just stared at him, eyes slightly owlish. His whole body felt sluggish and heavy, and he was already tired again but he refused to slip under just yet.

Price held his gaze for a moment before closing his eyes and sighing, sitting back in the chair. “S’not your fault, I know. But  _ God  _ you know how to stress a bloke out,” Price murmured, peeling his tired eyes open to look at Soap and give him a slight smile.

“Try my best, old man,” Soap muttered, showing off a weak smile, more of a twitch of his lips.

Price just laughed and sat forward to grip his hand tightly until Soap’s dinner (or whatever meal it was) arrived. 

  
  
  


Another few days and they were weaning him off the good stuff, saying he needed to become not reliant on it and to give him some physical therapy. (This included making him take a few shaky steps around the room until he collapsed back into the bed while Price looked on in amusement.) Soap also found out that they were in a safehouse of Nikolai’s in India somewhere, no one would give him the specifics.

Currently. He was watching the one channel in English while propped against an ungodly amount of pillows as Price snored in the chair beside him, having grown bored of the show earlier. 

Soap had also found out how much of a time crunch they were on. Makarov was at large, in hiding he’d heard. He knew that when Price wasn’t with him, he was tracking down leads. Knew that if it weren’t for him, Price would be out there looking for them himself. Couldn’t help but feel guilty, called himself an idiot for thinking so. He knew Price loved him, (made something warm in his chest surge up, and not the stitches), and Soap knew he’d do the same for Price if he were in this position. 

Thus, he tossed the guilt aside and instead focused on Price’s warm hand in his, occasionally twitching from a dream. 

A commercial came on. Soap began a mental timer, of how many days they had left of this peace. Something was coming. Whether it was good or bad had yet to be decided, but Soap was certain of one thing. 

Makarov would die.

  
  
  


Two weeks after they killed Shepherd and Soap was finally taken off the harder drugs, told to take a prescription (fake, but prescribed by a real doctor) of pain meds and a bottle of something he wasn’t quite sure what it did until they were both empty. He wasn’t sure how long that would hold up but he was willing to do anything to keep himself going.

He wasn’t ready for battle yet, for any strenuous activity for at least another week, and the doctor looked pained as he said that. Soap knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing the things he knew he was going to be doing in a week, but the doctor knew himself better than to argue. Price’s face was blank, but Soap was concerned that he was disappointed in his recovery, for holding the older man back from finishing the job, the mission.

Thankfully, he was cleared to leave the hospital bed and was given a room, but crept into Price’s room halfway through the night, nearly gasping by the time he made it there. His heart was beating rabbit fast against his throat but he pretended he didn’t feel it thrumming.

The door had a passcode entry, which made Soap raise an eyebrow at. His had used only a key. He shrugged,  _ makes my job easier,  _ he thought as he inputted the password he knew Price would use, (the date of operation Kingfish) and slipped inside, shutting the door silently behind him.

He wasn’t dumb enough to think he wouldn’t wake up Price, but he hoped that the man would accept his presence and slip back to sleep relatively fast. What he didn’t expect was for Price to grab his waist and tightly hold him to his chest, placing his head in the crook of Soap’s neck.

They didn’t say anything, but Soap fell asleep with all his earlier fears put to rest.

The next morning they woke up to hear World War III had begun.

  
  
  


Soap spent the next week pushing himself as hard as he could, forcing himself to build up the muscles he’d lost and to bring his stamina back up. He also spent that time acquainting himself with Yuri while Price watched in dissatisfaction. Soap knew he wasn’t happy to see Soap running around and pushing himself, but Soap knew they should have been out there two weeks ago and that the time for rest had ended.

Price thankfully never mentioned how Soap fell into bed in an exhausted heap and was asleep before Price could even get close.

  
  
  


Price had finally relented. They were making their move the next day.

They were currently in bed, facing each other and just holding each other, listening to them breathe. Soap had his head against Price’s chest. Their goal the next day wasn’t particularly dangerous, but Price had reason to worry. Soap just knew that as long as they had a place to rest after, he’d be fine. He’d healed at a miraculous rate, even though the stitches were still in his chest.

He planned on taping waterproof bandages over the stitches, to prevent infection. Price had said nothing when he brought it up, just frowned harder. 

“I’ll be fine,” Soap murmured into Price’s chest, shifting slightly to get his numbing leg better blood flow.

Price let out an unintelligible noise in response and tucked Soap closer. Soap chuckled a little, ignoring the slight ache. Price was already slipping asleep. Falling asleep first for him lately had been rare.

_ “We’ll  _ be fine,” he amended, voice quiet in the silence. 

Price sighed and nodded. “ ‘Course.”

It was silent once more for a while and Soap was beginning to drift off before he spoke.

“Even if we don’t make it through this, I love you,” Soap murmured. He wasn’t quite referencing the mission for tomorrow so much as the whole hunt for Makarov which was likely to have a bloody end. For whom was undecided.

“I love you too, you problematic bastard, now go to sleep,” Price growled.

Soap grinned in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied about giving a rant about the campaigns lol. I'm tired and don't feel like typing it so I won't. I hope you guys enjoyed this little fic and can't wait to see the sequel. Cannot say when I'll write it as I have a lot of other things on my mind but it Should happen.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so. This is my first time writing Soap/Price and I kept freaking out over the fluffier scenes wondering if it was too ooc. I hope they're acceptable and that you enjoyed them, because as stressful as they were to write, they were also very fun. I'll post my rant about the mw2 and mw3 campaigns on the next chapter so look out lol.


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